


Ghosts (Standing in the Place of You and Me)

by caelystrae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12056397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelystrae/pseuds/caelystrae
Summary: Whatever Ana might have expected, it is not this: Angela pulling her into a hug, as soon as the door is closed, arms trembling around her not with anger but with some other, unnameable emotion.  Whatever she might have expected it is not this: lips on her skin and roaming hands, two eyes desperately trying to make contact with her own remaining one.  Whatever she might have expected it is not this: a second chance at having something she thought long lost.Or,Ana finally answers the Recall, and receives a far warmer welcome than she could have anticipated.





	Ghosts (Standing in the Place of You and Me)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write for this pairing since the day Ana released but I'm only just now posting this... 425 days later. Oh well! At least it's decently long and not the little drabble I intended this to be when I finally sat down to write it on Monday.
> 
> Also, although I didn't tag this fic as such (to avoid people thinking it's a kink thing) Angela is trans in this fic. It's specifically relevant because this fic involves muffing, and if you don't know what that is--well, I'd recommend looking it up, first. The TL;DR is that it's an alternative form to penetration besides the usual (vaginal and anal) suspects.

Returning to Overwatch goes much how Ana expected it would; Reinhardt is tearful, Lena is overjoyed, and Fareeha is a knot of emotions, all felt and expressed at once. 

(Who could blame her?  Certainly not Ana.)

For the most part, being once again at Watchpoint: Gibraltar is—not routine, because there are some things, like dying, and explosions, after which nothing can be routine again, but they are— _familiar_ , in the same way returning to one’s childhood home seems familiar.  Despite a number of changes, mostly to Ana herself, and to the other people gathered, there is a _sameness_ to rejoining Overwatch.  Some things, it seems, can never change (even when she has wanted them to).

This is not, of course, to say that _everything_ is as she left it; yes, she takes the same quarters she once occupied, and yes, owing in part to Fareeha’s presence on base, her favorite tea can still be found in the kitchen, but some people are notably absent.

Gabriel, for one, and for obvious reasons.

Jack, whom she last saw in pursuit of the former.

Angela, too, is absent.  On base, or so Winston assures Ana when she asks, but—elsewhere.  Wherever it is that Ana is not.

That Angela has made herself scarce should not come as a surprise to Ana; for all that they were lovers, once, it was purely in the euphemistic, physical sense, and if there was any deeper affection there, they never spoke of it.  Furthermore, for all that Angela can be downright _showy_ in many ways, there are parts of herself she likes to hide, such as anger.

To the public, and to those who do not know her well, Angela is a bright, shining thing, is kind and caring and calm, and certainly, she has the capacity to be all of those things, but that is not all she is.  Sometimes, Ana knows, that tranquil smile masks a slowly building anger, one Angela would not dare show the public, for fear of losing face, fear of how they would _think_ of her, fear that if she is not likeable, then she will be alone.  In private, Ana has seen her shake with anger, be reduced to tears as she tries _so hard_ to repress the feeling, to modulate her emotions and reach what she considers an _acceptable_ level of anger, of fear, of sadness. 

(It was beneficial to both of them, then, their arrangement—Ana was someone to whom Angela could express those feelings, before whom she could be vulnerable, and in turn Angela was someone whom, even if only for the duration of a given scene, Ana had some control over, even as Jack and Gabriel’s disputes grew beyond her ability to mediate—and Ana wonders what Angela has done, in the meantime.  Reverted to her old unhealthy mechanisms of coping, perhaps, or found someone else?  The former is more likely, but Ana hopes for the unlikeliest scenario of all: that Angela has found some equilibrium, even if Ana herself never could.)

Given what Ana knows of Angela, she expects one of two outcomes when she arrives at the door to her quarters: first, that Angela will put up the same calm, distant mask she does before others, when feeling something unpleasant, and politely greet Ana before finding some excuse to dismiss her, or second, that Angela will be furious, and expect Ana to step right in and take control, stealing her anger from her as happened so many times before.

(Third, of course, is the option—slim—that Angela will simply be _angry_ , and that will be that, but Ana has a harder time picturing this; would Angela yell?  Would she hiss?  Would she say nothing at all?  In the most heated of meetings, years ago, Angela’s voice would grow hard and her words would be cold and precise, then later she would shake and sob while Ana tied buried three fingers in her.  Such an outcome seems unlikely today, for many reasons.)

Whatever Ana might have expected, it is not this: Angela pulling her into a hug, as soon as the door is closed, arms trembling around her not with anger but with some other, unnameable emotion.

(This is not the first time Ana considers that, perhaps, they lied to themselves when they laid the boundaries of their arrangement, but this time, the thought is not so easily dismissed.)

Rather than say anything, at first, Ana simply pulls Angela in closer, allows herself to _hold_ someone for the first time in years, and to be held in turn.   When she breathes in, she expects Angela will still smell the same, and it will be almost as if time never passed, save for the fact that this time, it is Angela who holds her.

Of course, things are not the same, and Angela smells different—is different.  It is a little thing, a change in perfume, but it is enough to startle Ana from the moment of fantasy she has indulged in, pretending as if Angela were her lover in all senses of the word, and this some touching reunion.

(Angela never loved her, and she never loved Angela, so both of them said—it ought, still, to hold true.)

“Aren’t you angry?”  she asks, stepping back, tilting her head up just slightly to meet Angela in the eye. 

 _You should be,_ is the implication, and she knows Angela hears it in her tone, wonders if it will be taken as she might have meant it once, a judgement, a condemnation of the way Angela deals with feelings, or if it will be heard, instead, as it is intended now: an acknowledgement that Angela would have the _right_ to be angry, after Ana left as she did.

(Ana is not the woman she was when she left; it is easier, now, to admit her own culpability.)

“Of course,” says Angela, brow furrowing, “But I’m happy too and—can’t we have just this?”

_Just once?_

Ana is not certain.  What would it do to them, to allow such a change?  Would they truly be able to go back to being what they were afterwards?  She does not think so.

But, then, perhaps they could not do so already.  Perhaps the past is already lost to them—they have changed, both of them, have they not?

What, then, is there to lose?

So she kisses Angela, and it is different, already, from the way things were, gentler, sweeter.  Ana does not quite know what to make of the change, is not sure she is deserving of such tenderness—but she will take what she is offered, for she has _always_ been good at taking things.

(Sometimes, she has worried that taking is the only thing she is good at, any longer, taking technology, taking leave, taking _lives_.  She worries that she takes too much and gives too little.)

When Angela half-leads half-pulls her to the bed, Ana finds herself giving in.

_Just this once._

It is strange, to let herself be led by Angela, strange to see how Angela has matured—not that she was immature, before, but she is older now, certainly, crow’s feet beginning at the corners of her eyes, and weight that was not there before pads her hips and thighs—strange to think that the woman before her now, thirty-seven years old, is not young, in any sense of the word, but is younger still than Ana was when the two of them met.

When they break apart for a moment, Angela catches her stare, but what she thinks of it, Ana does not know, for she says nothing, and they are not so close, now, that Ana can anticipate her thoughts.  Years apart have taken that from them.

(But perhaps things, once lost, can been regained—has she not returned?)

This time, unlike years past, they do not undress one another—probably, Ana thinks, this is for the best, she doubts Angela would know where to find the pins in her hijab, does not want the fabric carelessly damaged.  In time, they can relearn this step, she can teach Angela where the pins are and how to fold the fabric.  They may not have a feel for one another just yet, but things can be (re)learned, if need be.

When Ana has finished divesting herself of her clothing, she turns, and takes the opportunity to truly _look_ at her lover, for the first time in years.  What she intends to be a thorough and drawn out cataloguing of changes is cut quite short when Angela turns around and Ana realizes that what she had previously assumed to be the same silicone inserts of years previous are now organic breasts, flesh and blood and fat, are part of Angela’s body, and not only adhesives.  It catches her quite off guard—in the half a dozen years they were lovers, Angela only spoke of any sort of medical transition as a distant, nebulous thing, to happen, perhaps, once her life had settled down.

(Of course, her life never did settle down.  Things grew worse and more turbulent steadily and steadily until finally nothing else _could_ go wrong and Overwatch imploded and exploded both.)

She must stare a moment too long—and truthfully, she does not mean to, does not mean to stare at all, only wonders what changed and how she could have missed it—because then Angela is crossing her arms over her chest in a way that could almost be _shy_ , were it not for the fact that Ana cannot reconcile shyness with the woman she once knew.

“I should have mentioned…” Angela says, teeth sinking into her lower lip at the end of the statement.  It is not an apology—nor should it be—or an expression of shame or embarrassment; she is simply considering.  “Well, next time.” 

Perhaps, Ana thinks, this is new to her also. 

(Ana wants to ask if Angela is happier now, but does not know if such a question would be appropriate, or quantifiable.  In any case, they were never close enough to want to ask such things before, and simultaneously too close to _need_ to ask them.)

“You look beautiful,” Ana says, in lieu of something more meaningful, unable and unwilling both to delve deeper, to threaten whatever temporary peace they have found themselves in, “You always do.” 

“They’re smaller than I had hoped,” Angela confesses, and moves her hand to cup one breast, as if weighing it. 

 (This phrasing puts Ana back in the territory of the familiar—Angela has always referred to parts of her body as if they were some foreign object, something wholly separate, and not a part of herself.  In the past, Ana could not imagine what it must be like to conceive of oneself in a way that is so fragmented, to think of the body and the mind as two separate pieces of something greater, but now, having been both herself and the Shrike, she thinks knows.)

"But," Angela adds, a coy smile playing at the corner of her lips, "Much more sensitive.” 

"Really now?”  Ana asks her.  "I suppose I'll have to determine the truth of that myself, hmm?"

"Well," says Angela, huffing a little laugh.  "That is what you came for, yes?"

It is not, in fact, what Ana came for—but, then, she also does not know _what_ precisely she was thinking, what she expected from coming here, and this is much better, in any case, that any outcome she imagined, and so she does not contest the assertion when Angela pulls her in for a kiss, follows her one-time lover onto the bed without so much as a second thought.

(That is not to say she will not second guess this, later, but for now, it feels right.)

While Angela leading her might be a change from the usual order of things, they quickly cross into the territory of the familiar once they are on the bed itself, and Ana finds herself on top of Angela, lips returning to their favorite spot on Angela's neck.  Time has not changed everything, and the little sigh her attention elicits is the same as it was before.

Similar, too, is the feeling of Angela's hands on her body, clinging to her as surely as they ever did, one fisted in her hair and one moving down to grab her ass, pulling her in as close as is possible.

There is difference, however, when she moves to play with Angela's breasts—it seems the assessment of _much more sensitive_ was not an exaggeration.  Certainly, Ana is not complaining; Angela always did make such pretty noises, and some part of her did worry about this, not that she would have forgotten what it is that Angela likes, but that perhaps after so many years she would no longer be _attractive_ enough for this.  While she does not think she is ugly, not by any stretch of the imagination, she knows that she is decidedly older, and the twenty-three years between them may not have mattered as much, when she was just beginning to grey and to wrinkle, but seven years apart changes many things.

Many things, but not this, not the way her name is gasped as she plays with a nipple, not the way Angela arches into her touch and bares her throat—a surrender, in years previous and now something else, a sign of trust.  Time has not changed her ability to please Angela, to draw a response from her and to please her.

Or, so she thinks.

When she reaches down, intending to assess just how close Angela is, she finds her still soft.

Immediately, she pulls back from her place at Angela's breast, moves so she can look her lover in the eye. 

"Are you not enjoying this?”  she asks, and if she were anyone else, her voice might waver, and while a part of her _is_ embarrassed, uncertain, insecure, the greater part of her is concerned, concerned that this is not something Angela wants, not really, or that she has done something wrong.

"What?”  is the answer, and Angela seems genuinely confused.

"You're...”   Ana gestures vaguely with one hand towards Angela's crotch.

"Oh!" and now, Angela looks away, a blush blooming on her cheeks which is distinct from her earlier flush of arousal.  "It doesn't really...”   she trails off, and then her tone switches to the same clinical one Ana has heard time and again outside of this room, "Estradiol injections have an adverse effect on the ability to maintain erectile function.”   If, perhaps, she says the words a bit hastily, betraying some emotion that need not be named, Ana will not comment on it.

"Should we stop, then?”  Of all the ways Ana had considered this reunion going awry, this was admittedly an unexpected one.

"No!" says Angela, perhaps a bit more forcefully than is necessary.  "I mean...  not unless you want to?"

Now Angela looks nervous, and Ana is quick to reassure her, "Not at all, I just need you to tell me what to do differently.” 

"Could we just go back to what we were doing before?  It was nice.” 

Ana certainly has no objections—her arousal has faded considerably as they were talking, and starting again from the beginning ought to help that.  So she returns to what she was doing, hands finding Angela's breasts again, and allowing Angela to take a turn sucking at _her_ neck for a moment.

(She considers it fortunate that it is considerably harder to visibly mark her skin than it is to mark Angela's—although her lover is flippant in her use of nanobiotics to heal embarrassing bruises, Ana is a bit more cautious about an over-reliance on the technology.)

This time, what is different stands out to Ana more readily than what is similar—the way their breasts now brush up against each other, the fact that Angela's bangs and her own eyepatch being on opposite sides prevents them from easily making eye contact as they do this, the way her voice, changed both by age and disuse, sounds as she gasps Angela's name. 

For all that is different, this is certainly no _worse._ Perhaps her knees are more quickly growing sore from kneeling than they used to, and perhaps things were briefly a bit awkward, but she is no less wet than ever by the time Angela moves a hand down to slide a finger between her folds, cannot help but rock into the motion.

She shivers as Angela whispers into her ear—and she does not catch the exact words, far more focused on the sound of her own heartbeat, but she knows well enough the meaning and suddenly everything is _too much._

(She was dead, she was dead she was dead she was _dead._ She was dead, and gone, and this was too, and she was never to have it again.  After years alone to suddenly be here, be back like this and to have this—admission, this _confession_ before her, a desire long unfulfilled suddenly offered her—she is not ready, does not deserve this.)

When she hears it, she does not jerk back, is careful, does not want to ruin everything by not being able, yet, to return the sentiment she just—refocuses.  Switches targets.  Changes objectives.

( _Running from things again,_ she thinks, and it is not untrue, but if anyone else were to say it she would say she is only buying time.)

Beneath her, Angela's back is arched, her breathing growing more labored, and Ana thinks _This is the perfect distraction_ , knows that if she can only divert Angela's attention elsewhere, she will not need to answer the question, not until she is ready to do so.

So, she says nothing, only moves her mouth again to Angela's neck, hands kneading her lover's breasts and teasing her nipples, feels the heartbeat under her tongue increase as Angela's voice changes in pitch and volume, until she is gasping, begging.

" _Please_ ," says Angela, and then again, " _Please, Ana.”_

(Once, Angela might have called her another by her rank, or callsign, or something else entirely, but after so long spent living as not-herself it is nice, now, for Ana to hear her own name like this, to have her identity reaffirmed so.)

"What should I do?”  she asks, because although she knew, once, the answer to her question, she has learned the value in asking questions, in their years apart.

"Want you inside me," Angela answers, and Ana feels a familiar stab of arousal in response—there is some power culturally ascribed to the act of penetrating, and outside of this room Ana would be quick to scoff, to dismiss it as men being as they are, but instead...  well, there is something uniquely heady about knowing Angela _allows_ her to take a position of power, to know that Angela, proud and stubborn, surrenders to her.

The lubricant is still in the top bedside drawer, tucked in next to a pair of toys and a box of tissues, although the condoms she might once have found next to it have disappeared.  Although it may not be strictly necessary, she reaches for it anyway, makes quick work of slicking her fingers, and nearly as easily gets to work at fingering Angela.

It is not immediate, locating and slipping into a canal, and she is gentle as she does it, but things quickly fall into a familiar rhythm and it is not long before she finds herself slipping two fingers into Angela—in fact, the whole process is much faster than she remembered it being.  That could just be the effect of time, however, and it really does not seem worth asking in the moment.

(They will have time enough for questions later, about many things; a part of her cannot help but note that it never seemed like such a luxury before.)

After a few exploratory thrusts, Ana finds what she is looking for, knows she has brushed against Angela’s inguinal nerve by the reaction she gets from her lover: a sudden jerk of hips, a gasping breath, eyes squeezing shut.  Finding it took a moment longer than she might have considered usual, years before, but the sensations Angela experiences are clearly the same.

Pleased with herself, Ana shifts her weight, knees moving to bracket Angela’s thighs and free hand and forearm up beside Angela’s torso, supporting her weight so she can bring her mouth to Angela’s breasts, can tease and lick and suck and see what new reactions she can draw from Angela.

(It is a good thing, she thinks, that she wears her hair braided now—if it were loose it would get in the way, and she has not a spare hand to move it.)

Despite the not inconsiderable amount of time they spent on foreplay, she goes slowly, knows that doing so will get the best reaction out of Angela—and knows, too, that hearing her lover beg is quite scintillating for herself, and this is the best way to go about it.  She times her movements carefully, circling a nipple with her tongue as she curls her fingers inside Angela, nipping lightly at the edge of her breast in time with a hard thrust.

Soon, one of Angela’s own hands moves to the breast Ana has been ignoring—she can see it in the periphery with her one good eye—and the other comes to join Ana’s hand, arm bent at what must surely be an awkward angle in order to entwine their fingers.  It is… sweet, and unexpected, and utterly unlike what Ana has come to expect from the two of them, and she can feel her eye begin to mist slightly in response to the unexpected tenderness.

(She never thought she would feel such things with Angela, and once she became the Shrike she thought she could not feel such things with _anyone._ )

To distract herself, she redoubles her efforts, increasing the speed of her motions and feeling Angela react above her, below her, around her.  She feels as Angela’s fingers tighten around her own, hears gasps turn to moans, notes the feeling of Angela’s thighs tensing and untensing between her knees. 

Angela is, of course, not the only one feeling the effects of this, Ana finds herself growing wetter in response to the way Angela is saying her name, the feeling of Angela tight around her fingers, the knowledge that she can still provoke such a response. 

It has been quite some time since she was involved with anyone else sexually, and it seems like longer still since she was able to think of herself as sensual, or desirable.  But now, after years away, to see that for all that she looks differently—acts differently, thinks differently—some part of her elicits the same reactions, is no less attractive than she once was… it is a heady thing.

Also heady is the way she can _smell_ Angela and herself both, their scents combined with sweat and arousal, and the taste of salt beneath her lips.  Above her, the sounds Angela is making are increasing in volume, and she feels the hand she is not holding move between them, reaching downward.

Briefly, she entertains the idea of sitting back, grabbing Angela's wrist, and finishing off her lover herself, but she is not certain, quite, what she might need to do differently, does not want to interrupt this with more fumbling, more questions—she is impatient now, not only from arousal but because she feels her knees growing more sore by the moment, the arm supporting her wait beginning to tremble from the effort.  Maintaining this position for so long is not so easy as it once was.

Despite being tired, she cannot help that her hips roll a little against empty air as she hears Angela begin to plead in earnest, hears her beg, a familiar litany of _please_ and _more_ and her name, over and over, _Ana, Ana, Ana._

(Ana decidedly does not think of a phrase beginning with a word that sounds all too similar, dare not do so, but she hears it all the same, in Angela's tone, heard it years ago, if she is honest with herself, but, then, she was _rarely_ honest with herself, not when she could avoid it.  Time and distance have made such things harder for her, have provided greater perspective for the both of them.)

"Please," Angela is gasping, "Ana, _please,_ " and Ana realizes that _oh_ , she is still waiting, still obeying rules Ana would not have dreamed applied any longer.

So Ana does sit back, moves so she can look Angela in one eye, their intertwined hands forcing their arms to half hang in the air between them, and orders her to come.

The effect is immediate, Angela's thighs closing tightly, her back bowing, her grip on Ana's outstretched hand tightening.  She is beautiful like this, much as she ever was, and there is too much to look at all at once, and so instead Ana just maintains eye contact, watches an unnamable emotion pass behind Angela's eyes as this happens, rocks her own center against her forearm in the meantime to relieve some pressure. 

Unlike in the past, Angela does not say anything as this happens—makes no noise at all—and so what it is Ana now knows stays hanging between them for the duration of the moment, there but not, a specter not unlike their history—

—Until, abruptly, the moment ends, Angela dropping her half-raised arm, head turning away from Ana's gaze, her now free hand reaching to the side table to grab tissues.

Unsure, suddenly, of what she ought to do, and feeling somewhat voyeuristic, watching Angela clean herself up, Ana moves to sit slightly to the side; in the past, this was always her job, was filed under the umbrella of aftercare, but now, it seems, Angela can handle herself, is more than willing to clean up her own messes.

"There we go," says Angela, signaling she is clean, and drawing Ana's attention back to her face, "Now it's your turn.” 

The second sentence is accompanied with a gesture, and Ana knows the meaning immediately.

"Ah, no," says she, not unkindly but with enough firmness that the Angela of seven years ago would have taken it as an order, and left it unquestioned.

But the woman before her is not the woman of seven years ago, so a question does follow, and swiftly, "Why ever not?  I seem to remember you _quite_ enjoying it.” 

Ana huffs—that is _true_ , Angela's mouth has always been good for more than just asking petulant questions, and there is something unquestionably dominant about the position—and then answers, "I'm sore," says she.  "That was more than enough kneeling before.” 

Angela hums, considering, before she perks up and says, "Well, there _are_ benefits to fucking the doctor you know.” 

"No," says Ana firmly.

"But—"

"No.  I may not have been here, but I know well enough that the PETRAS Act impeded your ability to finish testing.  You _still_ don't know the long term effects of nanobiotics, so I won't have them used on me so casually.” 

(Never mind that Ana has been using them on _others_ , but that is a conversation for another day, and she rather suspects that if she mentions the rifle to Angela now then she will not get a chance to come, either kneeling over Angela _or_ on her back.)

For a moment, Angela looks as if she wants to say something else, expression pleased and confused, before she seems to quell the thought, and return to the matter at hand.  "Well, I suppose I could get on the floor and you could stand over me, if you like.  I mean, it isn't the most comfortable, for either of us, but it works.  Or there's the chair, which—"

"Angela," Ana interrupts her, before things somehow get more complicated, "There's a much simpler way to do all this.”   She pats the bed with the hand which is not covered in lube as she says it.

A brief frown makes the wrinkles that have appeared on Angela's face deeper, "I thought you didn't like to be...  you know.”   The statement is followed by a vague gesture.

"It's fine," she answers. 

(In this context, with the two of them as equals, it is fine.  In this year, the old Overwatch being entirely destroyed, and gone with it the _dread_ Ana felt then, the terrible overwhelming anxiety and inability to let down her guard for even a moment, it is fine.  In this scenario, the two of them having changed and been changed, it is fine.  Allowing herself to feel vulnerable is no longer the danger it once was.)

"If you're certain...” 

"I am," says she, as much strength in her voice as there ever was.

For a moment, they are still, before Angela breaks the silence again, "Well, I suppose you should just lie down then.” 

Ana laughs, then, cannot help it, "You're currently lying on top of all three of the pillows, Angela.” 

"Oh," says Angela, "Scheisse," but she too, is laughing a bit as the two of them switch positions, bumping into each other awkwardly as the dipping of the bed offsets Angela's balance.

It takes a moment for both of them to settle, even after they have switched places, for the laughter to fade and the mood to return somewhat, but it does, and then Angela is the one leaning over her, bangs tickling Ana's cheek.

"Do you mind?”  she asks, fingers trailing the edge of Ana's eyepatch.

 _Does she?_ Ana is not certain. 

"It's hardly attractive," she answers, to avoid having to ask the question of herself.

"I guarantee I've seen worse," is Angela's reply, and Ana supposes this must be true.  She is still considering whether or not to remove it when Angela adds, "You're going to get sweaty, too.  It'll be gross, if it isn't already.” 

That, at least, she cannot object to, and it _does_ feel a bit silly to cover the old injury in front of Angela, whose job has put her in a position to see many a more recent, messy injury.  So she brings her own hands up to her face, brushing Angela's aside, and takes the eyepatch off, setting it aside on the nightstand.  _This_ somehow feels more vulnerable than nudity, more vulnerable than lying on her back and allowing Angela to crouch over her. 

For her part, Angela does not react badly—looks for a moment as if she is studying the injury, assessing it, but does not say anything.  Instead, she presses a kiss to the tattoo beneath it, whispers a word of thanks, and carries on her way, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ana's mouth, then to her neck, trailing lower and lower.

There is a tenderness, here that did not exist before—or, perhaps, one that was not allowed—a reverence to the way Angela's lips touch her skin, and the way clever fingers trail over all the new blemishes on Ana's skin, the scars, the sagging, the stretch marks made more evident by time.  While Angela might have respected her before, might have been awed, that awe was in in the classical sense, with a respect towards potential for destruction, whereas now there is simply wonder, disbelief, and with it an aching gentleness, one the two of them have never known. 

(A part of Ana wishes Angela were rougher, wishes she did not need to watch the emotions play across her lover's face as each new scar is revealed to her—but she cannot stand to look away, knows that now is not the time to run, not if she wants to ever be able to return again.  Still, this would be simpler if only Angela were rougher, if only this were something more like what Ana were used to.  Anger, she can defend against, and all other harsh things, but she is unaccustomed now to anything soft, does not know how to react to being treated so nicely.)

For a long time, Angela's gaze lingers upon one scar in particular, a shrapnel wound in Ana's abdomen.  It would have killed her without nanobiotic intervention, nearly still did, as her supply of grenades and bullets dwindled—and Angela must recognize the severity, must know from the way it is healed that it _ought to have_ killed, if not for extraordinary means.  Her fingers trail along it, and her lips after, and Ana shivers in response, feels her nipples harden just a little bit more, and the physical reaction is distraction enough to compel Angela to move on.

Words will be had later, Ana is certain, a lecture on when field medicine is inadequate, but there are many other fights looming of greater priority too, _You left_ , and _You took,_ and _You should have_ all awaiting them both, so she can hardly worry about it now. 

(Even in the moment, she did not worry about it.  A dead woman cannot be killed.)

Far more pleasant things exist to dwell upon, in the moment, and living in the moment is what kept Ana alive, in the between years, so it is easy for her to brush all thoughts of past, future, past-become-future, future-become-past from her head.

She refocuses just as she learned to, a deep breath, eye closing, focus turned only to sensation—a mattress, too soft beneath her, cool air against her skin where sweat has risen, heat as her internal temperature rises, soft lips moving to suck at the point of one hip, and an aching.

With one hand, she moves to nudge Angela's head over, to move things along, pushing Angela from her hip to her center, and Angela obliges, though Ana can feel her lips curling into a smile as she presses one last kiss—amusement, presumably, at the impatience so uncharacteristic of a sniper.

Ana opens her thighs to give Angela space, and is glad she does not have to ask for this; begging always was Angela's realm.

Of course, this does not mean Angela will oblige her immediately, does not mean that they are not equals in stubbornness.  Instead of doing what it is that Ana wills, Angela bites and sucks along her inner thighs, and Ana finds herself unsure whether to arch into it or to squirm away.  Angela is _so close_ to where Ana wants her, yet so far away, and each time Angela turns her head she just barely brushes against Ana's exposed sex, in a way that is _certainly_ not accidental. 

Rolling her hips a bit towards Angela's face, Ana hopes to force the issue without betraying herself, without losing whatever small battle of wills they have found themselves in—so unlike the games they played in years before, given the reversal of roles, but so similar in other ways—but seven years is a very long time, and Ana almost wonders if losing might not be worth it, here. 

_Almost._

Instead she bites her lip, tries not to think too hard about what it is she would very much _like_ her lover to be doing right now, and instead brings both her hands to her breasts, hoping that the motion will draw Angela's eye, that the image will be enough to spur her lover to action.  She bites her lip as she does so, not wanting to give away how much she wants this, how much the delay, now and before, has frustrated her.

Still, when a particularly sharp nip from Angela accidentally syncs up with a flick of her nipple, she realizes that this is a game she will not win, does not want to, if waiting longer is the win condition available to her.

(Never mind that her wetness must have given her away already, anyway.  She has been noticeably so since before she was ever inside Angela, and that is something she cannot mask, even if her pride demands she save face elsewhere.)

If she cannot win like this, she will do as she has always done—in the bedroom, and elsewhere—will change the rules to suit her favor.  If Angela will not touch where she wants her to, well, she will touch herself.  No matter what, she will not beg, cannot be made to ask for this. 

(Before, only pride would have prevented her from doing so, but now, it is more than that, is not only pride but a need to know she does not rely on others, a need to feel that she can care for herself, here or anywhere.)

One hand she brings up to the headboard, giving herself something to hold onto, and the other she brings downward trigger finger sliding through coarse hair before finding her clit.  She is not gentle—never is, with herself—and does nothing to hide the moan that escapes when, at last, she is able to find some relief.

 _That_ draws Angela's attention, and it is only a moment before she is being hoisted up, thighs over shoulders, hand pushed out of the way by Angela's nose as she moves to finally, _finally_ satisfy Ana.

Had the teasing not gone on so long, she might be embarrassed by the immediacy of her reaction, by how much her thighs are already trembling, by the way she is already rocking into Angela's face, by the way her hand buries itself in Angela's hair, pushing her head forward.  She might be, but she is not—she has waited long enough. 

After so long, it does not seem as if Angela has forgotten any of what she likes, clever tongue remembering the rhythm from years before—one loose circle followed by two tighter ones and then a flick at the clit—and Ana can already feel the hot coil of arousal deep in her stomach, knows that if she wanted to, she could orgasm soon with just a little effort on either of their parts, and as alluring as that sounds, as much as she wants this, has wanted this, a part of her is not ready, yet, for anything to end, so she nudges Angela's face a little lower, to tease at her entrance, and allows the heat to uncoil slightly, allows the tension to fade a bit, her heartbeat slowing slightly and breathing more regular.

(Once this ends, she is afraid of what will happen, does not know where the arguments to come will leave them, does not know if she will ever again be able to be with Angela in this way, or if they will instead lapse into their old ways, will find themselves again unable to be open before one another outside of their prescribed roles.  So she fights it ending, lets the orgasm escape her, allows them just a few minutes longer of this little interlude.)

It is not unpleasant, to feel Angela inside her, but such has never been enough for Ana—not with any partner—to result in an orgasm, and likely never will be.  Still, there is something to be said for the knowledge that her lover is _inside_ her, that she is vulnerable now in a way she rarely allows herself to be, and that Angela sees her like this and does not mind, does not care that she is not the same woman she once was, is not the same Captain who was strong, and brave, and never accessible in any way, was almost aloof, the knowledge that she is different, now, after her return, but it does not matter.

(She would be lying if she said that she could have anticipated even that she would _want_ this, but want it she does.  After too many years of being too strong she wants to be allowed to be weak, and to do so in a way that is not selfish, is not her leaving behind all that she has known, is normal, human weakness.)

Soon enough, Angela grows bored of just teasing, moves her attention to sucking at Ana's labia, teasing and pulling on them with her lips and tiny scrapes of her tongue—deliberate, in her intent to only excite but not to get Ana close, again, to orgasm.

Perhaps she still believes that she could win this, that Ana conceded by allowing her first potential orgasm to fizzle out, that she will wring a request from Ana yet.

She will _not_ , of course, could never make Ana beg—would only ever get a command at best—but optimism is something that Ana's lover has never lacked, is to be seen in the way she pursues the impossible professionally, ethically, and here.

Knowing this, Ana teases her a little, lets free a few sounds that she might never otherwise, allows Angela to think that she is more desperate than she is, hears, _feels_ Angela's corresponding hum of contentment.  It is all the confirmation that Ana needs.

" _Angela,_ " she starts as if she were begging, and wishes she could see the grin she can feel pressed against her.  Then again, " _Angela.”_

For a moment she thinks she has overplayed it—undercover missions were never Ana's forte—but then Angela is pulling back just slightly, looking _so smug_ , "Yes, Ana?”  Her voice is almost saccharine.

"You'll have to try harder than that," says she, flatly as is possible given the situation.

This, at least, startles a laugh out of Angela, a little shake of her head, and then they are moving again, Angela's lips and tongue finding her clit once more.

This time, there will be no backing down, will be no putting off an orgasm.  She can feel it already, in the way her spine is arching into it, in the speeding of her heart, in the way both of her hands grip harder, one on the headboard and one in Angela's hair, pulling blonde bangs out of her face to make this easier.

Of course, Ana can hardly focus on the sudden eye contact, finds herself almost entirely absorbed by sensation, by the desire of all her muscles to tighten until they can do so no longer, all feeling focused on a single point of her body.

 _So close_ , Ana thinks, _so close, so close, so_ fucking _close._

Just one more hard suck, just one more graze of teeth, and she will finally, finally come.  She closes her eye in anticipation of the sensation, bites down on her lip to silence herself and, and—

—And her attention is snapped away at the last minute by Angela moving a hand to snap near her face.

_Fuck._

" _Angela_ ," she grits out.

They are, it seems, at an impasse.

Or, so Ana thinks.  Angela has something else in mind.

"I want you to look at me," she says, breaking rhythm only long enough to get the words out, the feeling of her breath an almost unbearable tease in and of itself.

 _Well._ Ana is not a fan of compromise, not really, it always tastes to her vaguely of defeat, but when Angela is keeping her on the edge like this, not giving her that one final push she needs—a concession may be worthwhile.  Just this once.

So she concedes, opens her good eye and looks it with one of Angela’s, and it does not seem so much like losing now, as she feels Angela suck on her just so, and she thinks—

—She does not think, because that little movement, and Angela’s gaze upon her, and the way she has been tensing in preparation for what feels like so long now are _enough_ , and there is hardly room for thought anymore, only sensation, the pulsing of her muscles and the clenching of her thighs, the way her heart races and head spins.

(Perhaps compromise need not always be a defeat.)

Throughout everything, Angela’s eyes are meeting her own eye, and she could not look away even if she wanted to.  It might be nicer to say her gaze were one of defiance, a final small victory, but instead she is transfixed, is lost in feeling and space and time and possibility and _Angela._ Above all else, Angela.

But then, as most things do, it ends.  They break eye contact and then the gulf of time and distance is there between them once more.

Angela is moving to wipe off her face, the sweat on their skin is cooling, and Ana is suddenly very _thirsty_.  She gathers her strength to go walk into the bathroom, knowing that if she lets herself get comfortable now it will only be more unpleasant to stand up later, and ignores the slight shake to her legs as she does so.

When she returns, again, Angela’s clothes have found their way into a hamper, the sheets are once again straightened, and Angela is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for her.  Perhaps, if Ana ignores her, this conversation need not happen, she can just put on her clothes and walk out, and they can say all that it is they need to _tomorrow_ , have this one night untarnished by past or future.  She bends to grab her bra and—

“Please,” says Angela, “Stay.” 

(In her voice, Ana thinks she can hear another conversation, thinks she can hear so many more words; _Don’t leave,_ and _Not again_ , and _Not like everyone else_.)

Like this, Angela easily seems seven years younger, naked before her as if the time never passed, and Ana finds herself wavering.

Should she stay?  Likely, no—come tomorrow there will be conversations she would rather not have, about her leaving, about her rifle, about what Angela did say and what she yet cannot—but in coming back to Overwatch Ana is already acting against her own best interest and, well, what, then, is one thing more?

(How much could one night mean?)

“Alright,” says she, “Alright.” 

Just this once.

**Author's Note:**

> There we have it! This was very vanilla but that's mainly because I feel like it's best to get started for the pairing with something innocuous. If/when I decide to write more for them it will be far kinkier.
> 
> Title is from Harry Styles' song Two Ghosts.
> 
> Also, if my writing seems familiar, that would be because this is a throwaway account, lol. I usually write for a different pairing entirely.
> 
> I'd love it if you left a comment!
> 
> <3


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